Sir Percy's League
by Irael
Summary: Chauvelin has captured Sir Percy and has discovered the one thing he believes will break this valiant hero of the French Revolution. Rated PG-13 for mild language. Flames are as welcomed as reviews.
1. I In the Temple Prison

Disclaimer: I own all names unfamiliar to Baroness Orczy herself.

Chapter I

In the Temple Prison

It was this revolution, this struggle for democracy that turned even the most civilized into the very monsters they once abhorred. The population of France at the time seemed made up of solely the traitors and those they betrayed.

Safety was a thing of luxury, that only the wealthiest citizens could buy from officers and national guards of the Republic. Illegal transaction, though underground, was an established way of surviving through this treacherous time. Trust was a thing for fools. In this day brother betrayed brother to save his own bruised and lowly skin. Many families found themselves locked in a sunless prison, along with so many other betrayed aristos, because of naive reliance to the wrong man.

This was a time of vengeance, a time of brutal, insatiable hate directed at so many innocents. Fear and chaos burned through cities, a fire that breathed betrayal and deception and grew from revulsion and horror.

The inhumanity of those leading the nation was truly a terrifying reality. The power these corrupt men endowed themselves was endless, as was their cruel yet clever techniques of bringing even the strongest men into a crumpled heap of despair and loss. Perhaps the most creatively malicious of these men was Citizen Chauvelin, presider of the Secret Service of the Republic and greatest foe of that great Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The reports and sightings of this magnanimous man, ceaseless though they were, had become so completely ridiculous the common citizen would have difficulty locating a man of such height and strength. Indeed, some tales swore he could run faster than a horse and burn his enemies with his terrible gaze.

The English adored him; proudly sporting the wayside flower in all the fashions, and toasting him at every cotilion and party. They believed he was unconquerable and invincible to any weakness.

They were all of them wrong, however. For this man, this romantic hero and valiant savior to the French nobles found himself trapped in a dank and shadowed cell as a prisoner of the Temple Prison.

Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart. hummed softly to himself as he stretched out his legs on the too-small bench that served as an inadequate bed. A smile curled around his lips as he thought of the young French comtesse he had managed to rescue before he was captured.

Of course, this Englishman never considered himself caught, but merely delayed.

The comtesse he thought of was a slight young woman, not even five and twenty. Her small pointed face exaggerated her large grey eyes, and he let himself give a chuckle as he thought of her reaction to his appearence.

She had been smitten even before he had taken off his disguise. She had clung to him possessively despite his many reminders to her that he had a wife and that her attention was futile. Sir Percy toyed with the ring on his finger, wondering if his directions to My Lord Hastings had been carried out yet.

Percy leaned his head back against the uneven stone of the wall and let his lids cover his eyes as he heard the lock of his cell door being opened.

"Sir Percy, what an honor it is to see you yet again," bade a voice through clenched teeth.

Percy tilted his head forward, cracked his eyes open, and smiled humorously, "Monsieur Chauvertin!" he exclaimed, "What a pleasure it is to know that some decent company will be met with me in this filthy prison."

Chauvelin forced a smile, his eyes now resting predaciously on this tall figure of a man, "Is this cell to your liking, Sir Percy? For all you need do is ask and you shall have."

"Lud, Chauvertin, gracious until the end, I see." Percy laughed, "I should like some English food and perhaps a bed that I may sleep restfully on. However, this experience is much more enjoyable than my last stay at this lovely confinement, eh, Chauvertin?"

Chauvelin supressed a growl as the Englishman gave him a painful remembrance of his last defeat. He had been so close. But now the small sable clad diplomat knew exactly what he must do.

There could be no mistake this time, Chauvelin told himself, watching his enemy close his eyes again and begin to softly snore. No, this time would be different. This time he knew what it would take to break this Engish hero.


	2. II The Marquis de Manchette's Cellar

Chapter II

The Marquis de Manchette's Cellar

I

Marguerite found herself absolutely infuriated with her spontaneous actions. Was she not regarded as "the cleverest woman in Europe?" She had always prided her wit until this day.

"Fool," she chided herself, peering through the mere crack that was a window. Thoroughly discouraged, the young woman sat back down on a barrel. She had been a fool, a downright imbecile thinking she could help her husband.

Getting up restlessly, Marguerite paced the dirt floor of the cellar, wondering where in France she was. That she was in France she could be sure, even though she, Marguerite, a daughter of this country, was no longer welcome.

And why should she not be? She was the wife of that dastardly, that audacious Scarlet Pimpernel, that savior to filthy aristos who cared for nothing but themselves.

The sound of hooves on the street by her window jerked her from thought, and she watched as a cluster of men drew near the alley.

"In there, Monsieur?" Asked one voice doubtfully.

"Yes, my skeptic friend," replied a second that Marguerite recognized with sick familiarity.

The door rattled and swung open to reveal three men finely dressed, with faces red from the February wind. The smallest of them bowed lowly, almost mockingly, to Marguerite, and descended the stairs to step lightly on the dirt floor.

"Lady Blakeney," he began grandly, "France is again blessed by your lovely presence."

"Chauvelin," Marguerite gave a curt nod, "is another ingenious yet flawed plan to destroy the Scarlet Pimpernel the reason I must play the role of the hostage again?"

Chauvelin laughed, twisting his thin hands together, "No my good woman, I shall not be using you as bait this time."

Instead of feeling relieved, Marguerite felt fear stir in her heart as she wondered what Chauvelin could have conceived that was more efficient.

"I already have the Scarlet Pimpernel trapped in the Temple Prison, to be taken to the Tribunal of the Republic in five day's time. You are, forgive my frankness, of no use to me."

"Then release me!" Marguerite exclaimed. The taller of the men who remained by the door looked as if he wouldn't have minded the idea, but Chauvelin merely gave another laugh, more cruel this time.

"My dear, you seem to have forgotten yourself," the small man began, "I am not as gullible as I was, if ever, before. I know that if I didn't have you in the protective arms of the Republic you might do something foolish like try to rescue the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Marguerite looked hard at Chauvelin, "Where am I?"

"In France, of course, and that is all I shall reveal." Chauvelin replied simply.

"Do you really think the Scarlet Pimpernel won't try to escape?" Marguerite asked carelessly, "It seems to me, Monsieur, that no matter how hard you try he always outwits you. Is another defeat really what you want, Chauvelin?"

A tinge of color rose on the diplomat's pale face and his brows furrowed. Then, as if realizing he'd let anger get the better of him, he forced a smile, "This, I assure you, will go as planned perfectly up to the moment the great English wretch has his fair head bit from his frame by France's lovely Madame Guillotine."

Marguerite failed to suppress her gasp of horror. Chauvelin's lips curled into a triumphant smile, and he bent into a sardonic bow.

"If the Marquis' cellar is not completely to your liking," he began graciously, gesturing to the tall man still standing on the top step, "do not hesitate in voicing your wishes to the Marquis himself. He is a friend of the Republic, and an amiable man who will do what he can within reason to make your stay more enjoyable."

The tall man lowered his head in affirmation of what Chauvelin said, and the latter adjusted his sable cloak tighter around his slight form.

"I have business, so I must now end our pleasurable meeting," Chauvelin concluded, and ascended the stairs.

"My men are guarding the doors and the window. Please, Lady Blakeney, refrain from doing anything foolish. Good day."

Without another word Chauvelin strode out the door, followed by the shorter of the two men. The taller, however, remained standing on the landing watching Marguerite with apprehensive eyes.

"Is there anything I can fetch you?" He asked awkwardly. Marguerite shook her head, and sat back down on the barrel.

She lifted her head to see him make for the door, but suddenly the door was being pounded on, and there came a sound of a furious woman shouting. The Marquis de Manchette's face screwed up in annoyance, and he unlocked the door and a young woman strode in.

She was tall, almost as tall as Marguerite, and had a delicate face that currently bore a glare of indignance. Her large green eyes were captivating and sparkled from the cold air outside. Her cheeks were pink from the biting wind. As she yanked her scarf angrily from her head as she talked to the marquis, she revealed a mane of thick golden hair that curled in ringlets down to her elbows.

"No more captives, LeRoi. I refuse to to let this house become a prison!" She exclaimed hotly, glancing at Marguerite. The Marquis de Manchette swiftly covered her angry little mouth with his gloved hand, and hissed, "Do not speak so loud, if someone were to hear your words they could twisted to make us traitors. Do you want our family to die?"

The woman quieted, but her eyes still flashed dangerously, "How much longer do you think your bribery will last?" She hissed, wringing her hands in a determined sort of way. "Send this woman to one of the prisons. We can't afford food for an extra person."

"I can't, Faye," the marquis growled, both his hands on her shoulders, "Chauvelin ordered me to keep her here. It is part of his plan to keep the Scarlet Pimpernel captive until the trial."

"Why doesn't he use someone else's cellar?" She demanded.

"Because he trusts us and I expect to keep it that way." The Marquis de Manchette jerked, and looked back at Marguerite as if he's forgotten she was there, and finished stiffly, "If you let your temper get the better of you we could all die. Now come with me, you look frozen," he added kindly, and wrapped an arm around the woman and let her back outside.

Marguerite heard the lock click back into place, and closed her eyes, wishing she was back in Richmond safe and happy with Sir Percy.

II

Word had gotten out that the Marquis de Manchette held the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel in his own cellar, and citizens nearby had clustered around the alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of this woman. The guards cared not for the woman's own privacy, for they shared the same spite of the townsmen towards the wife of France's enemy.

Faye de Manchette, though upset with her husband hid the majority of her frustration, for she saw that LeRoi de Manchette wasn't entirely pleased with the scenario. Instead she waited until he had holed himself up in the study to slip through the pantry and down into the cellar.

She glanced at the faces pressed against the small window near the ceiling, and gave them a glare in return.

The woman, Marguerite, sat very still on one of the barrels, hands folded discreetly on her lap with her head bent, either in fatigue or thought the marchioness could not tell.

"Madame?" She began softly, closing the door behind her, and lighting a candle in the darkening room. Marguerite looked up, and beheld the woman with a blank countenance.

Faye offered Marguerite the bit of bread she had brought, but the woman refused it. Faye inwardly smiled, glad that this much of food might still feed her two sons.

"It comes to this," the marchioness began firmly in a low voice, capturing Marguerite's attention fully, "I refuse to hold another innocent in this cellar for the good of the Republic." The last few words she spat out bitterly, as if they were so foul she refused to keep them inside her any longer.

"To add to that," she continued, "I have a family to feed, and a fifth stomach is too costly to fill. It is for these reasons I will aid in your escape."

Something, perhaps hope, perhaps joy, sparked in the woman's blue eyes at these words. It was something so powerful and clear Faye couldn't help but smile.

III

Armand St. Just looked up at the stars that were finally piercing their way through the thin clouds. The moon, though rendered a mere disc of white haze by the clouds, would provide sufficient light, he concluded, his eyes darting to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

Armand watched the de Manchette house carefully, waiting for all the lights to be extinguished. He had heard word that the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel was trapped in the cellar of the Marquis' basement, and had dragged Sir Andrew with him out of their orders to rescue his own sister.

"Now?" Sir Andrew whispered, fidgeting slightly with energy. Armand shook his head, now watching the dark alley that ran alongside one side of the house. There was a rabble congregated around what Armand could only assume was a window. Anger flowed through his blood as he thought of poor Marguerite under their shameless and uncouth gaze. He would have thought even Chauvelin would have had the decency to give her some privacy.

"If they don't leave-" Sir Andrew began uncertainly, but Armand shushed him, for something caught his attention. The crowd began yelling, and packing themselves tighter towards the wall of the marquis' house.

A shock of blonde hair appeared among the dark heads, and Armand was torn between fear and pride. Part of him was proud that she had refused to remain captive, but the rest, the sensible side of him worried for her immediate safety.

The mob of people gave more or less a roar of rage, and closed in closer to the fair head, and overcame her. Armand stifled a cry as he lunged forward, only to have Sir Andrew catch his collar.

"We can not stop a Parisian mob!" He hissed, his voice clearly showing he was just as horrified as Armand.

The crowd laughed cruelly and suddenly Armand saw his sister's head among the grasping hands and stomping legs hit the ground heavily.

Cold fear clutched Armand's heart as it plummeted down to the depths of his soul. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the stone street. Sir Andrew pulled him to his feet, as the two watched as a man appeared at the doorway in the alley, and roared unintelligible words until finally the crowd dispersed to reveal the tall crumpled form. The man, the Marquis de Manchette, carefully picked up the woman and carried her back inside.

"We must tell Percy," Sir Andrew said hoarsely, still supporting Armand's shaking form. Armand said nothing, but his friend helped guide his steps towards the Temple Prison.


	3. III Bereft

Chapter III

Bereft

I

Chauvelin knocked impatiently on the door of the marquis house, and waited, hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. The Marquis de Manchette opened the door finally and welcomed him in stiffly.

"Something has happened." The marquis said without hesitation. Chauvelin looked up worriedly, sensing something was wrong from the tone of the man's voice.

"The wife, Marguerite, tried to escape last night."

"And?" Chauvelin demanded, fury stirring within him.

"Word found the people who was imprisoned in my cellar, and the crowd that had gathered attacked her when she entered the alley. I found her being beaten and kicked on the ground. She is dead."

A foreign emotion smothered his anger, but Chauvelin's kept his expression impassive. He paced the floor for a length, and then looked up, "And the body?"

"I bought a cheap coffin, one of Madame Guillotine's extras, and sent it out with the rest of the headless aristos of yesterday." The Marquis replied without sentiment.

Chauvelin sank into a chair, running his hands through his hair, trying to make use of the situation. His scheme had worked too well. He had never intended for Marguerite to really die, he had planned on keeping her in his power until the Scarlet Pimpernel was dead. The outcome of his plan would have the same effect, but he never would have thought he would tell Sir Percy the truth.

He meant to break his soul. Chauvelin had seen on rare occasion the looks that passed between the husband and wife, and he had known that their love for each other was immense. What better way to destroy Sir Percy than tell him his wife had died? It would render him more harmless than chains and ropes, or weeks of sleep deprivation.

Chauvelin stood back up abruptly, and glanced at the young boy who had gingerly entered the room.

"Where's Mama?" He asked quietly, looking worriedly at his father.

"Yes," Chauvelin began with mock concern, "where is your charming wife?"

"She fell ill a few days ago," the Marquis answered slowly, "we are praying it is not the plague."

"I see. You have my sympathies." Chauvelin assured him, opening the door to let himself out. The Marquis bade him goodbye with an apology of almost letting the woman escape, which Chauvelin waved away, and hopped into his carriage.

"The Temple Prison," he ordered his driver, settling back with a hand over his eyes, trying to process everything that had happened.

II

"Monsieur Chauvertin! Come to pay me another visit, I hope? Odd's fish, and you could come no sooner, I was getting so demned weary of thinking." Sir Percy began, examining his lace cuff, "Very dull activity, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur? La! but if everyone spent more time thinking and less time doing, consider what kind of state this world would be in! Positively ghastly, if you inquire of my opinion."

Chauvelin said nothing, but gestured for the guards to retreat to their according posts. Sir Percy finally graced Chauvelin with a cheery smile, and lifted a brandy-filled goblet in acknowledgement of the man's presence.

"I must say this drink is quite quenching. I thank you, Monsieur Chauvertin, for your enduring hospitality."

"I have news," Chauvelin started softly, "news of your wife."

"How is the dear girl?" Percy asked lightly, cleaning the dirt from under one of his nails, "Sink me, Monsieur, if you've got her locked away again."

"No. No, Sir Percy, this time it is serious, so I demand you to treat it as such."

Something in Sir Percy's eyes told Chauvelin that he had caught his attention, but then the Englishman yawned widely, "Another 'either or' proposition, I presume? Lud love you, sir, but at times you are so demmed redundant."

"Three days ago she entered Paris, no doubt hoping to save you," Chauvelin stated, "she was, of course, captured by my men."

"Of course. The silly girl can't help herself. Trouble just seems to find her." Sir Percy laughed clearly, resting an elbow on his bent knee.

"Damn it, Sir Percy, she's dead!"

Chauvelin's words rang through the cell, slapping the syllables back and forth.

"You jest, Monsieur," Percy began in a low, dangerous voice, quite different than his usual lazy drawl, "for not even you are as low to lie about something of that magnitude."

Seeming to catch himself, he barked a single laugh, "Forgive that comment, my dear friend. Begad! I seem to have gotten carried away. 'Twas rude of me, I know, to insult such a generous host."

"Sir Percy I am not lying. She was held for two days in the cellar of the Marquis de Manchette, guarded by four men. Word got out, I do not know how, but it did, that I had captured the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Last night she tried to escape, and might have succeeded had she known of the citizens that loitered outside the Marquis'

abode to catch a glimpse of her. Naturally when they found her trying to escape, all reason was lost. You know how the ignorant act: rashly and unthinking."

Chauvelin watched Sir Percy intently, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

It didn't come, however. Sir Percy's countenance remained blank, and he said finally, though in a strained voice, "Lud, Monsieur Chauvertin, do you take me for a fool? I demand proof that what you say is accurate, and not just another contemptuous lie."

"Indeed you are no fool, Sir Percy," Chauvelin agreed, "but I have two men here that arrived at these doors asking to see you. It seems they want to tell you something."

Chauvelin barked an order, and the guards escorted two gentlemen into the small prison cell that Sir Percy recognized immediately.

"Sir Percy, we tried to get here before you were told by them," Armand began pleadingly. In one fluid movement Sir Percy jumped to his feet and strode over to his friends, "Tell me, Armand, tell me this is all a lie. Assure me that my lovely wife is at this moment safe in England."

Armand averted his eyes from his captain's searching ones, and Sir Percy swayed on the spot, resting one hand on the stone wall for support.

Sir Andrew began softly, "We saw her last night beaten by the throng of wretches. There was nothing we could do."

"She is dead, then?" He asked, scarcely believing the words that were escaping his mouth. Armand gave a sob, letting all the unshed tears to finally fall.

"I did not intend this," Chauvelin swore, but Sir Percy finally could hide his emotion no longer, and released his fury on the small Frenchman.

"You wretched beast!" He roared, wrapping his long fingers around Chauvelin's neck, "You fiendish bastard! May God spare no mercy on your twisted soul."

Before Sir Percy could do anything more the guards were on him, prying his hands from Chauvelin. Armand and Sir Andrew leapt on the guards, swearing and beating in a flurry of fists.

More guards over came the three men, and pinioned them to the walls. Chauvelin, stooping as he tried to regain his breath, at last straightened, a solemn look on his pointed face.

"Lock the two in separate wings of the prison," he started, rubbing his throat.

Sir Percy collapsed in a heap to the floor as he dared not watch his friends lead away. His body was too wracked with sorrow to feel anything but pain. He heard Chauvelin locking the door and his footsteps slowly fading into the distance, and only then did the Scarlet Pimpernel allow his tears to descend.

Never has such weeping occurred in the Temple Prison before or since that night of anguish.


	4. IV The Orders

A/N: Elyse3: In the movie with Anthony Andrews and Jane Seymour, yes, Marguerite did have auburn/ brunette hair. However, in _The Elusive Pimpernel_ Baroness Orczy describes Marguerite often as having "a golden mane," or "fair hair." I'm going by that.

Chapter IV

The Orders

I

On the outskirts of a town sat a small, insignificant house. From one grimy, dirt painted window came the feeble glow of a fire. Citizens passed it with hardly a thought- it usually housed the poorest of poor

"New orders?" My Lord Hastings inquired, scratching his head as he peered over Lord Antony Dewhurst's shoulder.

Lord Antony remained silent, still reading the last few lines of the letter. "... there you will be greeted by an old woman. She will help you, for she holds herself in my debt no matter my protests. I have given her further orders to give to you which you must follow without hesitation or question."

He glanced at Hastings to see if he'd finished. Getting his answer, Antony folded up the paper, his eyes grazing the small drawing of the star shaped flower before he cast it into the fire.

"We just finished our mission," Antony began crisply, "so it's off to Paris we go, my good friend. We leave this evening, if possible."

Hastings smiled with eagerness at the prospect of the next adventure.

"All three trapped in the Temple Prison?" He asked in a hushed voice.

Antony nodded solemnly, drawing on his cloak and checking a few papers he had had with him since the two entered Melun.

"No doubt a foul scheme of that little man, Chauvelin," Antony mused, "Perhaps he means to catch us all this time."

Hastings let out a chuckle at the determination found in the Frenchman.

"Of all citizens the chief had to make a fool it had to be the one that holds grudges the longest. Come, Antony, we must make haste."

The two men set out towards the gates and passed through them with minimal difficulty. The road they took north to Paris was long and uninteresting. The two Englishmen coaxed their horses faster, for Antony sensed a dark feeling of foreboding hovering above them.

They entered Paris at daybreak as farmers requesting to market their goods. Before they had taken ten paces a stooped old woman approached them, a smile of undeniably pleasure spread across her wrinkled face.

"You are his friends?" She asked amiably in a weathered voice. Not waiting for an answer, she thrust a thin folded bit of paper at Antony.

"How do you know we can be trusted?" Hastings asked in a low voice, drawing the old woman from the street. The woman looked at the two with watery blue eyes and replied, "He told me who to look for."

Hastings did not need to ask who "he" was. Obviously this old French citizen had been the one Sir Percy mentioned.

"Excuse me," she began, her voice rasping with age, "but I must return to work. I shall see you again."

Without another word she turned and hobbled away. Antony slipped the paper into his pocket and hurried down the street, Hastings at his side.

"What are the orders?" Hastings whispered. Antony shook his head, and walked faster. The two ducked into a dark inn and found a table the lanterns could not reach. It was morning, and a few men slept soundly with their heads on the table, a mug still gripped brutishly in his meaty fist. The sounds of dishes being washed and merry chatter of the serving women captured a guest's attention before the hushed murmurings of two farmers would.

"This evening?" Hastings hissed worriedly, "If Armand and Sir Andrew are also trapped in the prison, how can we help them all escape?"

"We have the woman to help us," Andrew replied in a hushed tone, "she delivers food to the prisoners, and has lost all suspicion or cause of doubt from our enemies. She is a useful ally," he added thoughtfully, twisting the orders in his hands.

"So much could go wrong..." Hastings trailed off, biting his lip. Antony smiled warmly at him, "Faith, my friend. Trust the captain. He has never failed when it comes to Chauvelin's schemes."

II

Legs stretched out stiffly before him, Armand opened his eyes slowly and watched the flap at the bottom of the door slide away. A bowl of dark food was kicked into the cell, and Armand reluctantly reached down and picked it up. He held the rough bowl in his hands, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

It had been seven days since he'd been imprisoned, and the grief for Marguerite's death was still painfully near. A hatred for the French citizens beat through his veins with such vengeance it would frighten those who knew him that he could harbor such thoughts.

Absently he turned the crude wooden spoon in his hands until he realized with a jerk there was a scrap of paper curled around the handle. It was so dirty and old Armand could understand why he hadn't seen it before, but the writing on the opposite side was fresh and the scribble of a star-shaped flower filled him with hope.

_Be prepared to leave this evening. Wait for your dinner to be delivered, and that will signify that your cell door will be unlocked. Listen closely to the outside of your door, and when the guards leave their post, escape as silently and quickly as possible. _

Armand smiled slightly. He had wondered when Percy would make a move to escape. Armand's respect for his leader soared higher than before as he thought that he himself could not be able to plan an escape if it had been Jeanne.

With new determination swelling in his heart, Armand let his mind drift to happier times. Before Marguerite died, before his cowardice betrayed his captain, even before the beastly revolution had begun. Days of innocence, of simple joys, days of unquestionable trust for all those he knew.


	5. V Sir Percy's League

Chapter V

Sir Percy's League

I

Of all the inhabitants in France, Paul Armand Chauvelin was perhaps the most content. It was this evening at seven o'clock he would send the Scarlet Pimpernel to the French Tribunal in Boulogne. He would be traveling with the guards, of course, for this time he would make no room for error.

He sealed the message he had written to Robespierre, promising him that France would have her enemy headless before sunset of the following day. Smiling with satisfaction he handed it to the messenger standing in the doorway, and turned to look out of his window.

He looked down at the gates of the Temple Prison where a half dozen guards stood watch. A coach drew up to the doors of the prison followed by two more, and Chauvelin, feeling giddy with anticipation and anxiety, seized his cloak and made for Sir Percy's cell.

The small Frenchman unlocked the door and entered. The slim figure of Sir Percival Blakeney sat erectly, his once bright eyes now dull and as lifeless as Chauvelin had never seen them before.

"Come, Sir Percy," he began, keeping his resentment to a minimun.

The Englishman's eyes connected with Chauvelin, and he began, "Odd's fish, Chauvertin, where are we going this time?"

His voice was so forced and failing to hide the immeasurable fathoms of loss, Chauvelin felt something stir within his soul, but he quickly supressed the feeling, and said crisply, "I'm taking you to the tribunal in Boulogne where you will be tried guilty of numerous charges."

"And what of Armand St. Just and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely, monsieur, they shall be released? for you have no evidence against them."

"Evidence?" Chauvelin gave a hearty laugh, "Sir Percy, I do envy your sense of humor. The judge needs no witnesses, no evidence. He merely needs a denouncement. Madame Guillatine, as you know, is always hungry. Now come, the carriages are waiting."

II

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes pressed his ear to the door and listened carefully, waiting for the guards to leave their post. His bowl of presumably food sat untouched by his feet, and his hand rested lightly on the iron handle of the door.

Shouts came from a distance, and he heard his guards reply in angry French tones, and then footsteps pound away.

Knowing now was his chance, Sir Andrew gently turned the handle, and opened the door- unlocked, as the note promised. He stealthily crept down the stairs, surprised no guards were even remotely nearby.

Two figures detached themselves from the shadows, one bowed and limping, another tall and healthy, both heading towards him.

"Ffoulkes?" came a ragged hiss, and the stooped figure beckened for him. Sir Andrew cautiously drew nearer, and recognized the taller as Armand.

"Follow me," the old woman ordered, and hobbled with grating slowness down another set of stairs to a door. She pulled out a thick key and opened the door, gesturing for them to go through the frame and into the darkening outside world.

"Wait here," she said with an authority that neither young man dared question. Armand noticed the conspicuous hunch of the woman, and familiarity she betrayed with both of them, and voiced his opinion to Sir Andrew that is was Sir Percy in an exceptionally clever disguise.

Sir Andrew nodded, and the two waited in apprehensive silence. They heard the ringing of hooves thundering away and then the old woman returned with two more men Sir Andrew and Armand recognized immediately.

Lord Antony and My Lord Hastings greeted their previously imprisoned friends briefly, and Armand turned to the woman, smiling wider than he had for days.

"Come now, Percy, it was a clever disguise, but we need to know the rest of the plan. How are we-"

"Percy?" The woman blurted questioningly, and a sudden fear rose in Armand. He looked white-faced at his comrades, who were all regarding the woman now with surprise and nervousness.

"I am not your captain," she laughed, but before she could finish, Antony seized her shoulders and demanded, "Where is he, then?"

"I was unable to let him escape. He was under too much observation. He is in Chauvelin's coach headed for the French Tribunal."

"You foolish old crone," Hastings spat with sudden bitterness, "his life is worth more than all ours put together. Who do you think you are to save us when our captain's life is still in danger?"

"Calm youself, Hastings," Antony muttered, both hands still gripped tightly around the old woman's thin arms.

The ancient woman's eyes met his, and suddenly they sparkled with a familiar gleam. Antony let go of her, and nodded, a smile growing on his face.

"Who do you think I am?" She inquired to Hastings in a calm tone. Without another word, she yanked off her tattered cloak and straightened to a height as tall as Armand. She unwound the scarf binding her hair and let the fair locks tumble down. With a rag she wiped her face of the grime and make-up that caked it, and Armand found himself looking at Marguerite.

"Do not think I don't care about my husband's fate, dear Hastings," she said musically. Hastings turned a deep shade of scarlet, and bowed his head in apology. Armand seized his sister in a crushing embrace, and Marguerite looked up at him questioningly.

"It has not been so very long since I have seen you, Brother." She said curiously, and Armand explained what he had seen eight days ago outside the Marquis de Manchette's abode.

"No, Armand," she assured him, "it was the Marchioness Faye de Manchette you saw beaten by the rabble. She sacrificed her health to let me escape out the front door while she distracted the citizens. Now," she began with more concern, "how was Sir Percy when you last saw him?"

"Bereft," Armand replied, "struck nearly dead with grief, and Chauvelin is using that to his own advantage. The day after you tell me you escaped, I told Percy that you were killed."

Marguerite gave a gasp, covering her mouth as she whispered, "My dear Percy."

The five were silent for a moment until Sir Andrew began, "So it was you, Lady Blakeney, who sent the orders?"

She nodded, and threw her cloak back over her shoulders. She looked at Armand, and asked, "Does Chauvelin think I am dead?"

"Yes, he told Percy before we reached him."

A slight smile crept across Marguerite's face, "This can be used to our advantage. Sir Andrew and Lord Tony, go fetch the horses you arrived to Paris on. I shall ride with my brother. We must save Percy from the tribunal."

"Indeed. You have our services," Sir Andrew pledged, sweeping into a bow, and Hastings nodded earnestly, though still a bit pink in the face from guilt, added, "I shall follow you as loyally as I followed Sir Percy."

"It would seem, Little Mother," Armand began as Antony and Sir Andrew hurried off to bring the horses, "you would be your husband's Scarlet Pimpernel."

The small smile on his sister's face crept into her eyes until her whole face was glowing with pride, and she gave light laugh. A laugh that did not seem to fit in the dark street they stood in. Indeed, a laugh that did not belong in a city so wracked with hate and fear, but it was a merry laugh all the same, and for a few precious seconds Armand let his cares slip away as he listened to his beloved sister find a second of happiness.


	6. VI The Road to Boulogne

Chapter VI

On the Road to Boulogne

I

There is a saying of how so many words can be used for a single picture, and the same holds true for an expression. With one connecting gaze a world of misery and torment can be revealed in a person's eyes. Some, whether they be perceived as gifted or cursed is yet to be found, can hide all emotions from the common onlooker.

Chauvelin, however, was not a common man. His eyes, keen and raptorial, could see pain rather than sense it, and it was in Sir Percy's eyes he dared not look. There was an extent of his malice and hunger for relishing the fruits of his own work. It was not that the sable-clad man felt guilt or pity when he looked upon the Englishman's face; Subconsciously Chauvelin knew he did not have the strength to see the entirety of his own doing. To fully understand just what he had done to Sir Percy would result in self-loathing and unadulterated horror. He preferred to regard the one fact that emboldened him. It was a success. He had rendered the Scarlet Pimpernel so weak chains were hardly necessary.

"Citizen, we are soon to enter Boulogne," the coach driver called, and Chauvelin smiled, and ordered the horses to be driven faster.

"Surely the Tribunal has ended by this hour?" Sir Percy asked tonelessly as his eyes surveyed the hangings on the coach window.

Chauvelin glanced out the window at the scenery enshrouded by night, and replied carelessly, "They are always willing to make exceptions."

The Englishman said no more after that, and Chauvelin settled back in the seat with vague thoughts of sleeping.

As the night wore on the coaches slowly drew to a halt for a moment's rest. Chauvelin felt weariness slowly slipping over him, but he refused to sleep. He watched absently as a few guards tended to the horses, his gaze continually flitting back to Sir Percy's still form.

"Citizen Chauvelin!" The guard's voice filled the dark air quite awkwardly, and Chauvelin immediately straightened, and leaned out the window, ready for an ambush or a threat.

"What is it?" He demanded. The guard entered the small illuminated ring, and gave a respectful nod to Chauvelin before continuing, "There are fell trees blocking the road, presumably from wind or storm."

"Can it be cleared?" Chauvelin asked, his heart returning to its normal pace.

"Aye, but it will take time."

"How long?"

"If all the guards work at it, quite possibly before tomorrow's sunset."

Chauvelin frowned at the delay, and leaned out further to look down the road they'd come from. Only an hour back they had passed a small inn. Disgruntled and tired, he ordered that the carriages turn around and head for the inn while half the guards remain and begin clearing the trees.

If he could hear the grumblings of the soldiers, Chauvelin chose to ignore them. He turned his eyes back to the Englishman only to confirm that he had neither woken nor even stirred.

The inn was not of remarkable size, but the floors were well swept, and the dark walls were familiar with cleanliness. The main room was empty for the most part, save a table near the fireplace that hosted a cluster of five rowdy men.

The innkeeper approached Chauvelin with calm indifference and slight concern to learn that he would have to give up all but three of his rooms to the company.

Chauvelin commanded that the prisoner be locked in a second floor room with guards at his door and beneath his window at all times, and then made to retire to one of the rooms himself.

The men at the table, however, stopped him. Upon seeing their obviously drunk state and inhaling the rank stench of ale, Chauvelin snarled at them, almost daring them to ask anything of him.

One of the men, obviously too intoxicated to be intimidated, began, "Are you not the man who killed the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"He is not dead yet." Chauvelin growled, his eyes itching for rest.

"Where is he, then?" Another demanded boldly.

"Under the surveillance of the Republic, now allow-"

"He's here, isn't he?" The third man asked eagerly, slamming down his mug, sloshing tepid liquid across the dark surface of the table. The innkeeper winced at this show of carelessness, but no one noticed.

"He is under the surveillance of the Republic, now leave me in peace." Chauvelin snapped, and turned on his heel. A hand seized his cloak to stop his steps.

"Can we see him?" The offender beseeched, still clawing at Chauvelin. Thoroughly disgusted, the diplomat glared a reply, and pulled himself from the man's grasp.

II

The sun rose pale into the morning sky, but Marguerite didn't notice. Instead, she leaned out the window of the inn, to look at the rippled pane to her immediate left. Because so little now actually walled her from her husband her very soul felt drawn towards him.

Her bright eyes locked on the window, longing to see her Percy, but restrained herself from her impulses. Heaving a sigh, she turned back to her room and sat restlessly on the bed. She absently twisted her hands in her lap, waiting for the signal.

It was at noon when Marguerite heard the slight scuffling of footsteps in the hallway, and a single, soft knock on her door the common onlooker would perceive as an accidental sound.

Hurriedly, silently, Marguerite went to the wall separating her room from the prisoners. The day before, as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and My Lord Hastings were making the obstruction across the road, Armand and Antony talked with the innkeeper, a simple man by the name of Louis. With the reception of a small pouch of money, he agreed to assign the prisoner that would be arriving later a designated room. With more coaxing and promises for reparations, he consented (rather hesitantly) to allowing a small hole be cut into the wall.

It was to this aperture that Marguerite went to, and delicately pulled it aside. As it had been placed, the headboard of the bed in the adjacent room had been shoved against opening. Marguerite gingerly pressed against it with her shoulder, but it did not move.

With fond yet frustrated thoughts she realized her husband must be asleep on the bed. Furrowing her brows, she knelt even lower, and wriggled under the low frame of the bed, gasping for breath as loudly as she dared. Her limbs shaking with anxiety, she eased herself out from under the bed, and clambored to her feet, brushing off her skirts and pushing back her hair.

Before her her husband slept. Upon seeing his noble brow etched with sorrow and suffering, and the expression on torment painted across his face, Marguerite could restrain her feelings no longer. She knelt down and softly laid her palm against his cheek. A gasp tightened his throat and his eyes fluttered open. He gazed up at her face for what seemed like eternity to Marguerite, and then his eyes closed again, a look of disbelief and fearful hope passing over his countenance.

"The good lord has granted mercy on my soul and ended my life," he began, opening his eyes. His hand moved as if to touch her, but he restrained himself.

"No, Percy," Marguerite whispered tenderly, slipping her other hand into his, "you are not dead, and neither am I. What happened outside of the marquis' house was a dreadful misunderstanding. What matters, my darling, is that we are both very much alive. Now come," she pressed gently, rising to her feet, "we must leave this inn."

Sir Percy rose slowly to his feet, and then smiled down upon Marguerite. With an embrace and a single kiss all the feeling of pain and loss ebbed from Sir Percy's heart as he held her close.

"Of anything Chauvelin could have taken from me," he started softly, "losing you would be the single thing I could have never recovered from."

In Percy's arms was truly the only place Marguerite felt safe and content, no matter the situation. She wished she didn't have to pull away, and just remain within his folded arms, feeling the warmth of his cheek pressed to hers and letting his mere presence surround and fill her with joy.

"Lud love me!" Percy suddenly exclaimed in his characteristic drawl. He took a step back and smiled patronizingly at her, and finished, "if we remain we'll be found, you silly girl. Now how the devil did you sneak in here?"


	7. VII He Would Not be the Scarlet Pimperne...

Chapter VII

He Would Not be the Scarlet Pimpernel

I

Chauvelin passed by the two guards standing watch at Sir Percy's door. Barely acknowledging them, he asked if there had been any suspicious activity. One guard answered tiredly that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Satisfied for the moment, Chauvelin passed down the stair and into the dining area, where his mood sufficiently dropped.

To his dismay the five bothersome men remained; they hounded him, demanding to catch a glimpse of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and offering to buy him drinks. Chauvelin declined rather harshly, and turned away. He sought refuge out in the pale stark rays of the late winter morning. A slight wind lifted his cloak and ruffled his cravat. Thoughts of victory and revenge filled the small man's head, and smile curled around his lips. When the cold pierced through his fabric, he reluctantly went back in to the inn, only to find that now only three of the five remained.

Somewhat relieved, Chauvelin sat down stiffly at one of the tables and ate an early lunch. As he ate one of the guards brusquely walked through the door and informed him that the road would be cleared by late afternoon, and thoughts of departure should be close at hand. Wiping his mouth off with a cloth serviette, Chauvelin stood at the exact moment a fourth man he didn't recognize appeared in the room. He came from the back, obviously another one of the innkeeper's guests. The man joined the three, now of which were talking almost reverently, and glancing every so often at Chauvelin.

At something mentioned, the newcomer threw back his head and whinnied a raucous laughter; wringing his hands in mirth, and then glanced at the diplomat. His laughter ceased, but his smile remained, and in a graveled voice asked, "Let us see that Englishman of yours, Citizen. Just for a moment." He added, seeing the frown on Chauvelin's face.

Pride is a devious beast, and for someone as vain as Chauvelin, it very often controlled his thoughts. The small man had been outwitted by the Scarlet Pimpernel so tirelessly his ego was in sore condition. Visions glory and gratification through self-achievements began to swirl temptingly in his mind.

The men were not refined, they were of no social significance, and judging from their conversations, none of them were very intelligent. However, they were curious, and Chauvelin suddenly found himself overwhelmed with the need to display his cunning and own importance.

"Very well," he said finally, and the four men's eyes lit up. Chauvelin led them up the stairs, and down the hall toward the guarded door.

He scraped the key through the hole and twisted it with a flick of his wrist. With an august flourish, he opened the door to let the four gaze down upon the stricken form asleep on the bed.

"Well?" One of the men asked, staring from the room to Chauvelin's face, obvious puzzlement etched on his filthy countenance.

Uncertainty stabbed at Chauvelin's soul and a feeling of cold nausea swept over him. He entered to the room to find that the bed was empty. He turned around, waiting for his eyes to rest on the figure of Sir Percy standing, or perhaps sitting somewhere in the room, but there was not a person to be found.

A loud slam caught his attention, and he realized that the door to the room had been shoved close. A sickening grating of metal on metal reminded him that he'd left the key in the keyhole, but the sound of his defeat was heightened by sudden peals of laughter.

It was the one sound Chauvelin abhorred above all else. That confident, lazy, triumphant chuckle escalating to ringing laughter. That sound that marked the beginning of shame and disgust that now ruled Chauvelin's life with such familiarity.

The laughter faded quickly, and Chauvelin ran to the window only to be reminded that he himself had overseen the boarding up of the window. He called for his guards but there were none close enough to hear him.

In fury, the small man pounded on the locked door, screaming curses to the impassive walls. When exhaustion seized him, he collapsed on the bed, only now noticing a carefully folded slip of paper on the pillow. For a moment Chauvelin stared at it, knowing that he was going to read it.

_To what end?_ he wondered. He knew what it read. He knew what emblazoned the bottom of it in precisely which color. Yet still his thin fingers lifted it up and unfolded it.

Two stanzas.

Chauvelin's forehead creased from his raised eyebrows, and then furrowed in hatred.

_They seek him here, they seek him there,_

_those Frenchies seek him everywhere._

_Is he in heaven or is he in hell?_

_That damned elusive Pimpernel._

_You seek them here, you seek them there,_

_You catch them with the utmost care._

_Still they escape your prison cell_

_That damned league of the Pimpernel._

Chauvelin crumpled the paper in his fist, and hurled it with all his might. To his infuriation the small note made a gentle arc through the air and landed harmlessly on the wood floor.

II

A merry band of Englishmen and an Englishwoman made their way north to the Coast of Dover, laughing and talking as lightly as if there had never been a problem.

But behind Marguerite's smile still hovered an air of uncertainty. It was a familiar feeling that she knew she would never fully rid herself of, yet she kept a smile broad on her face.

In the distance a horizon of gray blue glass met the darkening steely sky of winter, and Marguerite knew that it was only a matter of time before she would return to England. The Daydream bobbed placidly atop the waves as their small boat drew closer.

A warm hand slipped in Marguerite's own cold one, and she looked up to smile at her husband. A grin marked his face, but his eyes held more seriousness. Love. Marguerite rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes momentarily.

This was peace; the most tangible feeling of bliss she had ever known. The wind stung her face and the icy ocean water flipped from the oars bit her skin, but the love she felt for Sir Percy forced anything but happiness from her cares.

_Il n'y a aucune plus grande puissance que amour._

This moment would not last. Sir Percy would leave again, and his undoubtedly long absence would frustrate and frightened Marguerite, but it would be manageable. Yes, Marguerite though with a smile, there was nothing she would not do to have these precious moments.

"To England!" Sir Percy proclaimed as the small boat nudged the yacht. His voice was not joyful- Marguerite knew he would rather remain in France for adventures, but now was not the time.

He would not rescue the unfortunate, he would not elude the Republic, he would not be the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would be her husband. Her own love. He would be Sir Percy Blakney, Bart.

The End


End file.
